Tom Swift and His Jetmarine by Victor Appleton II

Author:Victor Appleton II
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

SPANIEL ISLAND

"TOM! TOM!" Bud cried frantically, clicking the sonophone unit to different channels. But only silence answered his calls.

A clammy sweat broke out on Bud’s forehead. He was at the bottom of the sea, virtually alone. His best friend was in trouble, perhaps fatally injured. Both Tom’s life and his great invention were his responsibility! He must rescue Tom.

"Tom, hold on," Bud shouted into the mike. "Hold on as long as you can. I’ll be right with you!"

After checking the instrument panel to be sure the submarine would remain stationary, Bud sealed himself into the other Fat Man and hastened to the compression chamber. When the hatch panel was fully open he activated the suit’s jet propulsion and came flying out into liquid space, heading toward the gash in the side of the Vostok.

Putting on hold all thoughts of spectral mariners, Bud plunged into the sub, trying to follow the traces Tom’s passage had left. He found the missile bay, its thick door almost twisted off its hinges, and entered without hesitation. He swung about right and left with his two flashlamp beams, but could see no more than a couple yards in any direction due to the hanging creperie of vegetation.

Suddenly Bud realized his error. "What a dope I am!" he snarled, and switched his flashlamps off. As he had anticipated, he could now detect Tom’s own flashlamps off in the distance.

"Tom!" he cried, forcing his way forward. He could make out the bulk of Tom’s suit, standing placidly with its arms extended to full length but hanging limply. As Bud approached the other suit, he was overcome with dread—no one was visible inside the view-dome!

He can’t have gotten out! Bud’s confused thoughts shouted. Nothing can have gotten in—could it?

He rapped upon the side of Tom’s Fat Man with his arm. Then, eerily, the rap was repeated in perfect rhythm—and not by Bud!

Despite the gyros Bud almost fell backwards as Tom rose into view behind the dome. His forehead was bloodied, and he had clearly been crumpled at the bottom of the suit below the dome’s lower edge.

"Tom, can you hear me?" Bud shouted into his suit mike. Immediately, Tom nodded. But when he tried to respond, no message came through.

"Okay, skipper," Bud said in calmer tones. "Something’s wrong with your sonophone. You can hear me, but I can’t hear you." As both boys knew ASL—American Sign Language—they were able to communicate visually.

I’m okay now, Tom signed. There was a shock and I hit my head.

"I’ll help you come back in," Bud responded.

No, need to finish. Come along if you want, was Tom’s reply. He would clearly brook no further discussion.

Overcoming his trepidation, Bud followed along as Tom completed his brief survey of the Vostok. Much of the craft was inaccessible, but they were able to visit the reactor room, engine room, and what appeared to be a communications room, outfitted with dials and rows of old-fashioned monitor screens that weirdly reflected their suit lights. Everywhere they found the pitiful signs of humanity interrupted without warning.

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